The Trickster
by Pegasus
Summary: A background story for my Scion: Hero character. Enjoy! Usual copyright disclaimer, blah, non-profit, blah blah blah. Rated T for probably unnecessary swearing.
1. Plea Bargain

**Trickster – Chapter One 'Plea Bargain'**

_**South London, England - Two Years Ago**_

"My client wishes to record a plea of not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility, my Lord."

The pudgy solicitor, whose name was, rather unfortunately for him, Melvin Rowbottom, sat down next to his client who at this particular moment was occupied with stabbing a biro between the outspread fingers of his hand. Rowbottom nudged him sharply in the ribs with an elbow and he dropped the biro and looked up attentively.

"Mister McKinley, do you understand the plea that your solicitor has put forward on your behalf?"

"Is this where I say 'yes'?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Quite so." The judge peered over his glasses at the young man who had returned to the all-important job of playing with the biro. "In that case, Mr McKinley, I will declare this court adjourned with a view to setting a date for your hearing. In the meantime, you will be returned to the psychiatric wing of the detention centre where you will undergo extensive psychiatric testing in accordance with your plea-bargain. Do you understand?"

"Do I?" Another sideways glance at the solicitor who by now was looking remarkably harangued.

"Yes." Melvin Rowbottom wasn't traditionally known for being a patient man, and Mason McKinley was stretching his patience tissue-thin.

"Yes." Mason gave the judge a beaming smile. "Perfectly," he added, for good measure.

"So be it." The judge banged his gavel and the court adjourned. Mason was returned to the 'care' of the police officers who duly carted him back off to the small cell that had served as his home since he had been released from hospital two weeks previously.

He took the biro with him. When you had an imagination as rampant as Mason's, something that simple could give hours of amusement.

At twenty five, Mason McKinley was of average height and average build, with a raffish air about him. He was not, at first glance, what you could even remotely call handsome, but he had a certain quirkiness about his manner, and the tendency to (usually) harmless mania that made him the kind of young man that people enjoyed being around. He was an exceptionally charismatic young man with a smile that could generally win anybody over.

He was blessed, although that may not have been the best word, with a wicked sense of humour and was one of life's natural practical jokers. His bright blue eyes sparkled with wickedness and intelligence – although he'd never achieved academically, he was as sharp as a tack.

Mason McKinley could have been anybody he wanted to be. Instead, he had become a drop-out. But he was happy. And that, he reasoned, was important.

He had been engaged in any number of criminal activities from an early age, having fallen in with a bad crowd at the age of fifteen, leaving home at sixteen and spending his life in an assortment of squats and roach-infested apartments until six weeks ago, when one of those moments of madness had finally caught up with him.

Of all the things that he stole, he enjoyed stealing cars the most. He had always gotten a huge kick out of the excitement that came with taking a high performance sports vehicle and they tended to be the ones he went for. Rarely did he take them for any reason other than to go for a joy ride, trash the car and dump it. His bread and butter were old bangers: the sort of cars that could be stolen and taken to the cut 'n' shut guys for further sale. He made very little money out of it, but it kept him in cigarettes, dope and beer.

This particular car had been a beauty, though. It had started its life out as a brand new Lotus Elise, resplendent in British Racing Green – and was utterly immaculate and very, very lovely. Mason had seen it and within seconds had known that he had to have it.

Within an hour, it was his.

And two hours later, when he'd been engaged in driving at one hundred and thirty miles per hour down the M1, five police cars in pursuit, his criminal activities had finally caught up with him. He'd lost control of the vehicle and had ploughed into the central reservation barrier at around eighty five miles an hour. Somehow, he had been pulled alive (but unconscious) from the wreckage, with only whiplash, concussion, a broken arm and cuts and bruises to show for it.

The car, alas had been destroyed. Mason had wept when he'd heard the news, but that was largely down to the fact that he'd been as high as a kite when he'd stolen it and had been going through a particularly nasty come-down.

Mason had spent four weeks in hospital where he was swiftly assessed by the doctors to have a minor drug and alcohol dependency and slowly but surely the truth about his criminal activities began to come out.

Thus is was that he had appeared that morning on no less than twenty six charges, including car theft, destruction of property, breaking and entering, possession of cannabis, drink-driving, driving without insurance and one count of actual bodily harm.

Things were not looking good for him.

This was a point that Melvin Rowbottom was trying, without any apparent success, to communicate to his client. A third-rate solicitor, he had been assigned to Mason when it had become apparent that the young man had no means to pay for legal representation and he and his client had taken an instant dislike to one another. To Mason, Rowbottom represented everything that he had ever detested about 'the system'.

To Mason, 'the system' was everything that he hated. He counted school-goers, regular workers and most definitely solicitors amongst those who fell within 'the system'. He'd bucked the system at the age of twelve, receiving exclusion after exclusion from schools in the area for variously fighting, smoking and drinking. Eventually, his mother had given up even trying to see him to school and had let him run wild. Her interest in him had dwindled shortly after he had been born anyway, so there was no love lost between them.

"By pleading diminished responsibility, we stand a good chance of avoiding a custodial sentence," Rowbottom was explaining to a disinterested Mason, who was more interested in doodling on the table with the biro that he had brought in with him. "At least a _prison_ custodial sentence. A lot will depend on the outcome of the psychiatric tests. Are you sure you're up to them? Health-wise, I mean."

Realising that he couldn't just leave silence in the wake of a direct question, Mason looked up. "I feel great," he said, after considering it. His arm was still in plaster up to the elbow and his face only just starting to fade from the bruising he'd sustained in the high-speed crash. "What sort of tests?"

"Frankly, the ultimate aim of court-related psychiatric testing is to assess your overall ability to function in society. Given the problems you have with drink and drugs, I don't imagine you're going to have any trouble convincing them that you're mentally unstable – no offence."

"None taken."

Actually, quite a lot of offence had been taken and Mason squirreled the man's face away in the recesses of his memory for future use.

"You smoke marijuana on a regular basis, you've told me that. Do you do anything harder?"

Mason shrugged. "Dropped the odd tablet here and there," he said. "Someone gave me a dog worming pill once telling me it was Ecstasy. _That_ was a fun night." He saw Rowbottom's look of disgust. "No," he finished. "Just the dope. Now, anyway."

"Do you grow your own?"

"Do I look like an idiot?"

"Do you _really _want me to answer that question, Mason?"

"Do you want my fist in your gob, _Melvin_?"

"No. Now do yourself a favour, grow up – and answer my question."

"No. I don't grow my own." Sulky.

"Do you pass on drugs to other users?"

"You mean am I a dealer? No, I prefer the joys that car theft has to offer. And setting fire to things. I _like_ setting fire to things." Mason's blue eyes sparkled and he beamed happily. "And setting fire to cars is probably the most rewarding thing of the lot, I mean, have you ever sat and watched an engine fire? It's amazing."

Rowbottom made a few notes on his pad. Usually he dragged 'diminished responsibility' out as a last-ditch attempt to prevent his clients from being thrown into prison. With Mason McKinley, however, it looked like he was onto the real deal. The kid was clearly nuts.

"You'll be held in a detention cell until they sort out your psych dates," he explained to Mason. "They'll likely keep you in solitary given the nature of your plea, but I need you to tell me if you suffer any violence at the hands of the guards. This place isn't exactly Center Parcs."

"No kidding? I was about to ask where the water slides were." Mason leaned back on his chair so that the front legs left the floor and stared up at the ceiling, almost immediately fascinated by the missing roof tiles and the pattern he could discern in the stippled finish of those that remained.

Rowbottom watched him in silence for a few moments. If the kid was acting, he was doing a convincing job of it.

"I'll be back in the morning," he said, starting to put his notes back in his briefcase and pressing the button that would bring the guards to the interview room to 'escort' his client to the poky little solitary confinement cell. "Remember, let me know straight away if you have any problems."

"Mm-hmm."

Twenty minutes later, Mason had been transferred to the room that would become his home for a short time. All things considered, things weren't too bad.

He experienced no problems from the prison guard other than a brief and animated argument about wanting to go for a cigarette after curfew.

Rowbottom returned, as promised, the following morning to find a decidedly tired-looking young man who sprawled on the table miserably in between questions. He looked pale and tired and sickly.

"Withdrawal not going well?" Rowbottom was surprised to realise that he actually _cared_. There were people out in the Big Wide World who committed murders, rapes and other crimes against humanity, whereas apart from the one case of ABH that had been brought against Mason, his brand of criminal activity almost invariably avoided physical harm to anybody.

"Shut up. And no. I want a smoke."

"You can go outside for a cigarette if you need one that badly."

"I've smoked my quota for the day already. And I don't mean tobacco. I want a joint."

"You can't have one."

"I hate you."

Despite himself, Rowbottom quirked his lips in a smile. His client was almost surprisingly likeable in his attitude; like an overgrown child who was being told off for tormenting a kid sister.

The thought led neatly into Rowbottom's line of questioning for the session.

"Tell me about your family, Mason."

"Haven't got one."

"Parents both dead? Any siblings?"

A one-shouldered shrug and a dishevelled head lifted off the table.

"My mother's probably still alive. Dunno. I haven't spoken to her in like, ten years. Never knew my dad and reckon as Mum never knew who he was either. She wasn't interested in me, just whoever was between her legs at the time."

"No brothers or sisters?"

"Mum had a baby – a girl - when I was about eight," he said, "but she was taken away by Social Services. I wanted them to take me, too, but they said that I would be good for her, that staying with her might make her more responsible." He laughed, humourlessly. "Rich, that, isn't it? _I _would be good for _her_. What about what would have been good for _me_?"

The bitterness was strong, although the way Mason told the story, he made it evident that he didn't care one bit, not really. The bitterness was directed at the system that had denied his young self's needs.

It transpired that Mason's mother, Lynne McKinley was what could only be described as a 'working girl' who had been fond of her son for a brief time and then seen him as nothing more than a burden. Mason had finally left home at fifteen, moving in with a much older friend. He'd not been in touch with Lynne once since that day.

Rowbottom made a note to check out the validity of Mason's story, although he'd seen the same thing before. It would count very much in his favour in terms of mitigating circumstances.

"No idea who your father is?"

"Fucking hell, no. Even Mum couldn't hazard a guess. She said I didn't look like anybody she remembered, but I find it hard to believe she could remember _any_ of them." Mason leaned forward, an almost cherubic smile on his face. "I'm a bastard, aren't I? It made me the topic of much ridicule at school. Used to get into fights all the time. Got me expelled on a near weekly basis until I ran out of schools. Then I stopped going."

_Became rebellious in self-defence against school bullies_. Rowbottom noted this down on his pad and considered Mason thoughtfully. His opinion was rapidly changing, and he didn't know why. The boy was certainly charismatic, that couldn't be denied. He had the sort of personality that caught you up in its flow and if you didn't hold on tight, left you gasping in its wake. It was something that if it was harnessed and used correctly could help create a _most_ convincing defence case.

"When you go to court, it is unlikely that you will be called to the stand to answer questions unless the psychiatrists think you are able to. Would you object to me telling your story on your behalf?"

Another one of those one-shouldered shrugs.

"Whatever."

"That's all we have time for today, Mason. How are you bearing up?"

"I'm fine. Bored shitless, but fine."

"Can I get you anything? A book? Puzzles?"

"Some dope, a bottle of Jack Daniels…"

"Mason…"

"Man, I'm _joking_. Talk about your sense of humour failures."

"I've had word from the police psychiatrist. He'll be in to visit you this afternoon. Now, I want you to tell him everything you've told me this morning, OK?"

"You won't be there, then?"

"No, it has to be a private interview. The court don't like solicitors present during psych evaluations in case we…manipulate things our own way."

Privately, Mason suspected that Rowbottom couldn't manipulate a lump of plasticine, but said nothing.

"Make sure you convey to the psychiatrist how _sorry_ you are for any trouble that you've caused. Remorse will go a long way in your favour, OK?"

"Sure." Mason felt suddenly tired of the whole situation. Maybe he should just change his plea to guilty and get thrown in the nick for a while. He'd get out again in time and at least it'd be somewhere to live that wasn't a squat or rancid apartment. Rowbottom saw the look on his client's face and felt suddenly sorry for him.

"Here," he said, handing over a box of cigarettes of which about five remained. "Go crazy."

"I thought I already was." There was a pause. "Thanks, man."

"See you tomorrow."

"I'll be here."

The morning rolled along without incident, Mason sleeping through much of it. It was about all there was to do, after all, and he'd not exactly slept that well the previous night. No means of escape or relax that he was used to – which was, of course to say, drink or drugs – had left him bolt awake.

At three in the afternoon – according, at least, to the clock that Mason could see on the wall outside his cell – the on-duty officer came to collect him to lead him back to the interview room to meet the psychiatrist.

The twists and turns of Fate are often enchanting, always enthralling, and Lady Fate danced well that day. Less than an hour after he had been left alone in the interview room, waiting for the psychiatrist, Mason's life would change forever.

© S Cawkwell, 2008


	2. Paternity Suit

**Trickster – Chapter Two 'Paternity Suit'**

"Mason McKinley?"

The voice came from the doorway and Mason, who was sprawled on the table in his favoured relaxing position lifted his head and tipped it sideways so that he could examine the newcomer.

"Are you Mason McKinley?"

"Yeah. You the shrink?"

"Mister McKinley, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Doctor Keith Loman and I'm the police psychiatrist assigned to your case." Doctor Loman was a small, neat sort of man, with a pointed, almost angular face and a neatly trimmed goatee. Mason didn't trust goatees. He had no basis for that dislike, it was just one of the many quirks of his personality. Stubble, yes. Hell, even proper goat-hiding beards. But goatees just reeked of pretention.

The psychiatrist entered the room and closed the door carefully behind him. He wasn't particularly tall, and he was of average build. He wore a stern, charcoal-grey suit and that, combined with the neat black hair and beard made him look like what he was.

A psychiatrist.

He did, however, have extraordinarily piercing blue eyes that made Mason feel like he was being intricately scrutinised. It certainly had the immediate effect of making him sit up as smartly as possible and run a hand over his stubbled jaw rather self-consciously.

Loman was holding out a hand, which Mason stared at stupidly for a moment or two before making the connection once again with reality and shaking it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister McKinley, do you mind if I call you Mason? No, of course you don't."

Mason didn't mind.

Even though deep down, he had wanted to say 'no, I'd prefer it if you called me Mister McKinley', he knew instinctively that Doctor Loman was perfectly fine and within his absolute rights to refer to him as Mason.

Doctor Loman dropped a brown leather briefcase on the chair and moved to the opposite side of the table where he leaned forward and considered Mason with an appraising glance. "Well, well, well," he said. "Mason McKinley. Fancy finding you here."

There was some emphasis in that last sentence that baffled Mason. Did Loman mean 'fancy finding _you_ here', or 'fancy finding you _here_'?

He couldn't quite tell.

"I was arrested," he said, slowly as though speaking to an idiot. "Seems like the logical place to find me."

Loman laughed, a huge laugh that seemed to far outweigh his frame and slapped a hand down on the table. "You know, Mason," he said, between chuckles, "I suspect that you and I are going to get along just _famously, _aren't we? Yes, we are."

"Yes," said Mason, and furrowed his brow. "We are."

The psychiatrist sat down opposite Mason and crossed his legs, running his thumb and forefinger along the neat crease in his suit trousers. He reached into his top pocket and pulled out a pair of half-moon glasses that he perched on the end of his nose. He looked so much the epitome of a stereotypical psychiatrist that Mason felt an unmistakable giggle welling up inside him.

When Loman peered thoughtfully at him over the end of his glasses, the giggle became a chuckle, which in turn became a laugh almost as loud and raucous as the psychiatrist's of only a moment ago. Smiling, Loman removed the glasses.

"There, now," he said. "Much better. I _do_ prefer a smiling face."

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file. Mason's name was printed in neat copperplate on the front. "You've been extraordinarily difficult to track down, Mason," said Doctor Loman as he opened the file and reached back into the bag for a pen. "I've been trying to find you for a couple of years now. You _will_ keep moving around. It's most irritating. It means that you're hard to get a lock on."

This was completely opposite to everything that Mason had been expecting and he scratched at the back of his neck, not understanding what the psychiatrist was saying.

"Let's go over your history, shall we? Make sure my facts are correct. How about we begin by you telling me about your family?" The doctor leaned back in his chair, in much the same way that Mason himself often did, and steepled his fingers under his chin. Mason felt faintly relieved. _This_ was what he had been expecting. He pushed aside the other words as a figment of his imagination and willingly cooperated.

Relaxing slightly, he repeated, almost word-for-word the same sorry tale of his childhood that he had given his solicitor earlier that day, only with a little more embellishment. Doctor Loman was a good listener and practically _encouraged_ Mason to be as descriptive with the detail as he could be and he found himself settling into the role of the story teller with surprising ease.

"So your mother never mentioned your father to you at all?" Doctor Loman had been writing furiously on his pad all the time that Mason had been speaking.

"She claimed she wasn't sure who my father was. The closest I ever got was when she said that she thought he was a foreigner, he never said much to her. You know, just dumped his load and fucked off. Much like everyone else she serviced." Mason shrugged indifferently. "She claims she was taking contraception, that she made all her customers use contraception and she even tried to get rid of me. Seems I was determined to be here. She gave up in the end and just accepted it."

He rubbed his nose. "I'm the original mistake," he said. "Lucky me."

"Not at all, Mason. Had you considered that such tenacity implies that you were _destined_ to be here?"

"Oh, yeah, 'cos I have _so_ much to offer the world. No qualifications, no job, no money…"

"Mason, Mason, Mason, you have to start thinking differently. You have to start seeing yourself as a unique and special snowflake. One of a kind. You are here for a reason. The sheer overwhelming odds you defeated to come into existence must surely make you feel that?"

Mason shook his head. He felt faintly irritated at the line of questioning, because it was pulling into sharp relief all the anxieties he had been dealing with for his entire life. As a little boy, he had tried hard to win his mother's love. But Lynn McKinley, who had been only seventeen when she had given birth to Mason, had never really bonded with him. He knew, deep down, that he'd become a tearaway in a desperate effort to get her attention. It'd not worked, of course, she'd merely given him a good hard smack whenever he'd played up.

"Let's talk about your criminal history, instead," said Doctor Loman, watching Mason's changing expressions with great interest, but evidently sensing that a change of subject was in order. "Why cars, Mason?"

"I like cars."

"I'm almost pleased to note that you have a preference for the finer vehicles. Let's see – eleven Porsches, two Lotuses – or should that be Loti, I'm never sure which – and goodness, a Lamborghini. Certainly not cars that are inconspicuous or easy to sell on, are they?"

Doctor Loman tipped his head to one side.

"Now why would you go for such vehicles?"

"I like cars," repeated Mason, then hesitated, and grinned, a little ruefully. "I like _flash_ cars that have high performance engines in them. There's other cars that I've taken on that list, I'm sure – any number of Fiestas, or Escorts – but they just pay the bills, man. The sports cars are my favourite, though. When I'm haring up the road in one of those, people _look _at me. They don't know I've stolen it, they think 'that guy there must be pretty successful to be driving about in that car'. I can pretend to be someone I'm not, I guess."

"Ah, yes, something which I myself have been known to do on occasion." Doctor Loman waggled his eyebrows and Mason felt the feeling of insecurity that had threatened start to slip away again. He gave the most unusual psychiatrist a grin.

"Do you smoke, Mason?" The psychiatrist offered a packet of cigarettes. They were menthol, but Mason was desperate enough to accept them.

"Sure." He leaned forward and took one of them and the psychiatrist flicked a lighter. "But isn't it against the rules to smoke in here?"

"Oh, Mason, since when did you ever let the rules stop you?"

The gleam in Loman's eyes was unmistakable and Mason's grin lit up the room.

"Enjoy the cigarette," said Loman. "And sit comfortably, because I've got a story to tell you."

Five minutes later, Mason's jaw had dropped and he was staring at the man on the other side of the table with incredulity. Loman continued talking, his eyes never once leaving Mason's face. After ten minutes, a brief silence fell.

Loman narrowed his eyes shrewdly at the decidedly vacant expression on the young man's face. "Mason, are you actually _listening_ to what I'm saying?"

Mason scratched the end of his nose and swivelled a finger in his ear. "I'm listening," he said, slowly, "but I'm not entirely sure I'm _hearing _you, if you know what I mean."

"What are you hearing?"

"Right. OK. What I'm _hearing_ is you telling me…." Mason shook his head. "You're saying that you – which is to say, _you…_" Here, Mason pointed a noticeably shaking finger at the psychiatrist. "…are telling _me_…no way. That's not right. I don't look anything _like_ you, for starters."

"Strange thing, genetics," said Loman, leaning back on his chair again and grinning wickedly. "But the fact of the matter is, Mason, I _am_ your father. However, I suspect that your _interesting_ little mind is blanking out the really important part."

"I don't believe this," Mason said, standing up and beginning to pace the floor in an agitated manner. "I don't _fucking_ believe this. Twenty five years of not having a clue who my dad was and it turns out that he's a fully paid up, respectable member of society. Johnny Cargill's dad was in a rock band, for God's sake! No way is my father a bloody _solicitor_." He stared at Loman in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how _embarrassing_ that is?"

Loman said nothing, his eyes merely glittering as Mason stomped and paced and ranted and finally dropped back into the chair.

"Why now?" he said, eventually. "Why have you tracked me down now? How did you even _know_?"

"I pay close attention to the news. When you're in a – position – like mine, it's a very handy way of spotting what's going on in the mortal world."

Mason closed his eyes and muttered to himself under his breath. Loman chuckled lightly and reached over, touching the younger man on the shoulder. Almost immediately, Mason felt a peculiar sense of peace settle over him. He looked up at his new-found father in bafflement.

"That's better," said Loman with a soft smile. "Now your mind is more open to hearing what I have to tell you."

Another ten minutes passed. The peculiar sense of peace got up, left him and went on a permanent holiday.

"Do you understand me now, Mason?" Loman finished speaking and Mason finished listening.

"Yeah," said Mason, nodding. "I understand completely. You're out of your fucking _head_, man. I thought _I _was sort of nuts, but you're beyond nutty. You're into the nut-packing factory – with extra salt. I think I might like you to go away now, you're bothering me."

"What's disturbing you, son?"

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry. Mason. What's disturbing you?"

"Let's see." Mason put on a mock-thoughtful expression. "Is it the fact that I've spent quarter of a century without knowing who my father was and all of a sudden he turns up and barges into my life masquerading as a police psychiatrist?"

"I _am_ a police psychiatrist. At least I am right now."

"Shh."

"Don't tell me to 'shh'."

"Shh." Mason put a finger to his lips and, his own mouth quirking as he tried to suppress a smile, Loman immediately 'shh'd.

"That's pretty weird, you have to admit. And then, on top of that, you start feeding me some freaky stuff about how you're not even _human_, and you're this manifestation on the – what was the phrase?"

"Mortal coil."

"Mortal coil, that was it, thank you, of some ancient God, worshipped by the Norsemen of eight billion years ago…"

"I'm not _that _old, thank you."

"…whatever. And you're telling me that every fifty or a hundred years or whatever, you feel the uncontrollable urge to procreate. Man, I feel that urge _daily_. So twenty five years ago, you had one of these urges, came to earth, shagged my _teenage_ mother, you dirty bastard, got her up the duff, then fucked off back to heaven again."

"It's not exactly _heaven_ as such." Loman grinned suddenly: a wicked, base sort of expression. "And your mother was pretty sexy. For a mortal."

"God, shut up." Mason cringed. "And don't bore me with specifics. I don't give a flying _fuck_. If you're some sort of God, then I'm really sorry, but I demand proof. Turn this menthol cigarette into a joint, or something." He pushed the half-smoked, stubbed-out cigarette towards Loman. Or Loki. Or whoever the weirdo was.

Mason had finally gotten over his moment of furious temper. As a general rule, his nature was remarkably placid and it was a rare thing indeed for him to get angry. The intake of alcohol and class 'c' drugs generally left him in a mellow frame of mind. But right now, sober and without the benefit of being high, he wasn't capable of mellow.

"You want proof? Mason, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you had a great imagination."

"There's imagination, mate, and then there's the bloody impossible. Proof, please, or I'm going to yell for the guards and have you thrown out of here, you fucking lunatic."

"Alright, since you insist, and since you obviously won't listen to any sort of reason, I'm going to have to do this the hard way, aren't I?"

Loman got to his feet and crossed round behind Mason. He rested both hands on the young man's shoulders and gripped tightly.

"Let's go for a little walk, lad," he said.

Instantly, Mason found himself transported from the grubby interview room to what he could only describe as…

"…a _pub_?"

"A mead hall, actually, but close enough. This is mine, actually. Not many of us here, but then I was never what you might call the most popular of the Æsir." A smattering of hard-looking individuals with scraggly hair and beards and clothing that seemed largely fur-based sat around one of the tables, downing huge tankards of mead and ripping meat from joints that were frequently refreshed by a number of – Mason couldn't help noting – very attractive serving girls.

"I'm hallucinating," he said, nodding in understanding that finally, he had cracked up. "That's what this is. I'm tripping big style. It's like the dog worming tablet incident all over again."

"Sure you are, Mason. Here, take a seat." Loki-Loman steered his overwhelmed son to a seat next to another, larger and ornately carved seat which he himself dropped into. He was used to this reaction from his scions, but Mason was being particularly entertaining.

Loki chuckled at his son's face and, snapping his fingers, summoned the attention of a serving wench, into whose ear he whispered a couple of instructions. She giggled, nodded and vanished into the kitchens, returning a few minutes later with a tankard of ale and a plate of food for Mason.

She set them down on the table in front of him and then, much to his continued bewilderment, sat in his lap, kissed him full on the mouth, nibbled his ear briefly and then disappeared back into the kitchens.

"What the hell…?"

"Welcome to the life due the son of a Norse god, Mason." Loki leaned forward and took up a tankard of his own and raised it in toast to the absolutely bewildered looking young man. "Long may you enjoy it. Your very good health."

And in that second, Mason accepted the entirety of his situation. Crazy it might be – but crazy was what he did.

"Your very good health," he echoed, and drank the ale. "Dad," he added, just to be on the safe side.

What else, after all, could he do?

© S Cawkwell, 2008


	3. The Trickster

**Trickster – Chapter Three 'The Trickster'**

Four days had passed and Doctor Keith Loman had not come back to visit Mason again, despite the young man's hope that he would. The hope came largely from the fact that Mason had totally convinced himself that the whole thing with Loki's mead hall had been the best and most vivid hallucination he'd ever experienced and he wanted to feel that good again.

But there was nothing.

A glorious, big, fat nothing.

Not that he cared about _anything_ right now. The sedatives would do that to a guy.

Melvin Rowbottom had turned up the day after Loman's visit to see how Mason had gotten on, but the kid had been hyperactive and wild-eyed, babbling about such nonsense as the Æsir and Ragnarök and asking for copies of works on Norse Mythology.

Rowbottom had dealt once with a young man who had been almost entirely convinced that a previous incarnation of his had been a berserker Viking. This situation had a worrying look about it and he suggested that perhaps Mason's mental condition was deteriorating faster than previously suspected and that perhaps steps should be taken before he hurt himself.

Thus it was that on day four after coming into his heritage that Mason McKinley, Scion of Loki found himself sedated up to the eyeballs, drooling slightly idiotically with a manic grin plastered on his face.

Being sedated wasn't _all_ bad. He felt calm and peaceful, dozy and content. He spent a large portion of the morning snoozing whilst sitting on the floor of his cell, waking up only when they brought him some lunch, which he barely ate. Then he'd been taken outside for some fresh air, under close supervision (largely due to the fact that he was so doped up that he could barely stand) and then to the showers where he rinsed off five days of being locked in a cell.

They wouldn't allow him access to a razor, though.

However, by the afternoon, some deep-down inner voice was telling him that this was not an appropriate state for the son of a god to be in and it was the first time that he discovered he possessed remarkable self-control. He sat on the uncomfortable, hard bunk in his cell and closed his eyes tightly, imagining what it would be like to be in control of his faculties.

It was a wild idea, but for whatever reason, it _worked_. Mason couldn't explain exactly how, but several minutes after he started his little moment of spontaneous meditation, his head began to de-fuzz and he felt normality – or at least what _passed _for normality in his case – reassert itself gradually.

Not before time either, because at two, Rowbottom showed up again.

"The psychiatrist's report is in," he said to Mason, his voice surprisingly tight and, unless Mason was very much mistaken, filled with cool irritation. "Would you like me to give you the full report, or the quick _precis_?"

"The quick what-now? What's that mean, then?"

"The summary."

"Mister Rowbottom, I'm entirely at your mercy. Which do you think will make me laugh the most?"

"Fine. In short, Mason, Doctor Loman's report implies that whilst there are some very obvious issues that you need to consider therapy for, perhaps a few medications that might help you through your withdrawal problems, you are, for the most part – let me quote this, it's hysterical. _Mason McKinley, whilst clearly a troubled young man is eloquent, articulate and obviously very intelligent. I propose that not only should he be more than capable of standing up to cross-questioning, but that he be allowed – indeed, encouraged to present his own defence._"

Rowbottom dropped the report on the table. "Clearly you made quite the impression, Mason. Congratulations."

"But that's good, right? _…encouraged to present his own defence._

A memory slammed into his now-unfuzzed mind.

_You're going to get yourself out of prison, Mason._

"Oh, yes, very good – but could also be something that loses us the chance to push the diminished responsibility plea. If you – or I – mess up, you're looking at one hell of a jail term, son."

"Don't call me that," said Mason, automatically. "And I feel good about it. Positive. I reckon that I can convince _anybody_ of anything."

He didn't know how he was able to tap his latent abilities, just that he was aware that something was different about him. He remembered how his father had performed the particular trick and, greatly daring, he tried it out.

"Don't you think?"

The ability came astonishingly easily to him.

"You know, Mason, you might just be right." Rowbottom was surprised at his own words, but something in the way his young client had sounded so…_genuinely_ earnest had convinced him that in fact, young Mister McKinley might just be able to succeed. "I'll gladly help you write your defence if you want…"

"Who's paying you, Mister Rowbottom?" Mason asked, suddenly.

"Ah, the money for your defence will come directly from the state," explained Rowbottom. "You were considered to be unable to provide your own legal representation, so that's when they call me in. They pay me a standard, flat fee." He frowned. "Bread and butter work, you understand – I do have fully paying clients. In case you were wondering."

"You aren't going to need to do any work for them, of course," Mason said, rather childishly enjoying the effect his new-found ability to manipulate was having. "You're going to concentrate all your efforts into helping me prepare my defence, aren't you?"

"Absolutely right," said Melvin Rowbottom, not quite knowing why he was agreeing to something so mind-blowingly absurd, but nodding vigorously. "Your case is my most important one right now."

Mason was giggling uncontrollably by now. He knew that he should be far more refined about the fact that he was presently wielding unbelievable cosmic power never even so much as contemplated by lesser beings – where had _that_ thought come from? - and he should display a little decorum.

His father, however, had practically encouraged the use of his abilities for mischief.

During the time that he had spent with Loki in the celestial training ground of the mead hall, Mason had been given an amazingly thorough grounding in Norse mythology – not to mention Norse fact. He had always, like many people, known a little about the Norse pantheon – after all, nearly all the days of the week were named for Norse gods.

Except Loki, although Loki assured him that in some places, Saturday (the only day named for a Roman god, not Norse or Germanic) was known as Lokisday.

He knew who Thor was, for example. Everyone knew who Thor was, thanks largely in part to Thursdays – and, of course, comic books.

When he'd mentioned this to Loki, he'd been rewarded with a resounding clip around the ear.

"Never believe anything you see in literature about us unless I tell you it's the truth," said the Sky Traveller mildly. "Thor isn't some great hero. He has a single brain cell the size of a gnat's testicle, he gets a big kick out of playing with electricity and I suggest that should you ever encounter either him – or his progeny – that you trust them no further than you could throw Sleipner."

"Sleepy who?"

"Sleipner. By the halls of Asgard, your education is lacking, boy. Do you even _know_ who Odin is?"

"Er…wasn't he one of the Goodies? Took up bird watching in later years? Not Tim or Graham, the other one. With the beard." Mason scratched at an invisible beard, attempting to illustrate his point more effectively. "Bill."

"That," said Loki, levelling a piercing blue-eyed stare at his son, "was Bill Oddie."

"Oh. So not him, then?" On a deep-down, subconscious level, Mason vaguely wondered how Loki the Sky Traveller, the Trickster god of old Scandinavia knew who Bill Oddie was. His thoughts were interrupted by another clip around the ear.

"No," came the short reply. "Not him. Sleipner is Odin's steed. An eight-legged horse."

"Man, that thing must REALLY shift. What is it, a sort of octohorse? Did he cross-breed a horse and an octopus? Or a spider, maybe. Yeah, maybe a spider. A horse-spider crossb…"

"Mason?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and listen."

"Right you are."

Mason shut up.

"_Thank_ you. Thor and – well, most of the rest of my celestial brothers and sisters aren't exactly what you would call my friends. Probably the only one who has any time for me is Hel, and that's because she's not that popular with the others either."

Mason learned a lot about his father in that time they spent together. He'd learned that Loki was not trusted, was considered a potential traitor and that his scions were extraordinarily rare. Apparently, he normally only got out with a chaperone.

It transpired that he'd met and bedded Mason's mother during one of his moments of freedom. Even the other gods couldn't deny him the driving urge to procreate and every so often, usually around twenty-five years or so apart, Loki would run riot, bedding as many women as he could in the short space of time that he had allotted. In that time frame, he would sire as many children as he could.

"You're one of a batch of around twenty, I think," he'd said when Mason had enquired. "I've visited most of them already, but you proved pretty slippery. I'm proud of that, some of your brothers and sisters were unbelievably dull."

"Do they all receive this treatment?"

Loki shook his head. "No," he admitted. "For example, you have a sister in Scotland. She's married, with four children already and works as a primary school teacher. Not a bad bone in her body. She will never truly awaken to her abilities, so I have left her alone. Of the twenty children who were born after my last visit to the world, maybe only six or seven so far have been brought here. I've hopefully provided some more for the future in this visit to Earth, but we'll not know for another nine months, will we?" The grin he gave Mason was decidedly lascivious.

Mason felt a bit funny to realise that he had about twenty siblings-of-a-sort running around somewhere. Twenty five years of using 'I'm an only child' as an excuse for his behaviour began to crumble around his ears.

He felt equally funny, although not in a good way, to realise that Loki was telling him that he had come to Earth for another shag-fest.

He slapped himself mentally around the face and returned to the conversation.

"What about, I don't know, let's use Thor as an example again. How many children does _he_ have?"

"Far too many. You're outnumbered by a considerable amount. And you need to be very, very careful. It's not just the Norse gods who detest my offspring. Gods from other cultures also have very little time for me. You want to watch out particularly for scions of Baron Samedi."

"I've heard of him. Doesn't he ponce about in top hat and tails eating gumbo? Some Cajun bloke, right?"

Loki laughed warmly, the first truly genuine laugh that Mason had heard from him. "You're not actually that far off course with that one, Mason. It's nice to discover that you DO have a little retention in that empty head of yours."

Mason had felt flattered rather than insulted. He suspected, later, that Loki had deliberately bent reality that way.

He had learned, therefore, that not only was he a rare breed (strangely satisfying), but he was also an endangered species (strangely disturbing). Many of Loki's children had been hunted to extinction by the scions of other gods. Had Loki not visited him and wakened him to the truth, he would have gone through life as nothing more than Mason McKinley, dope-smoking, hard drinking petty criminal. But there was something about spending time with a god that marked you. Mason would learn this, much later. The time would come when he could spot a scion from quite some distance.

But that was a long way off.

"So are you going to get me out of prison?" he'd asked, eventually after the theology lesson.

"No, I'm not. You're going to get _yourself_ out of prison, Mason." Loki's smile had been wicked, but infectious and Mason had tentatively grinned back.

"No, seriously."

"Yes, seriously. You're going to show me that I'm not wrong in seeing the potential in you. And when you've got yourself out of prison, and found yourself somewhere to live that you don't share with fifteen other people, I'll come and see you again. And if you've been a _good_ boy, I might bring you a gift."

That had been the time that Loki had returned him to the mortal world, resuming the guise of Doctor Keith Loman the police psychiatrist. Mason had actually not been at all surprised to discover that no time at all had passed. It was what happened in all the best films.

He'd been hyperactive with excitement over the whole thing, a sense of excitement that hadn't assailed him whilst he'd actually been with Loki. But now he was starting to understand exactly what his father had been telling him.

_You're going to get yourself out of prison, Mason._

And he knew how he had to do it.

© S Cawkwell, 2008


	4. Self Defence

**Trickster – Chapter Four 'Self Defence'**

"I call Mason McKinley to the stand."

A buzz ran around the court room as the young man dressed in grey combats and a football shirt that proclaimed his allegiance to a certain London team who favoured royal blue stood up and swaggered across from where he had been seated next to his solicitor for most of the morning, making his feelings towards the case for the prosecution's statements blatantly obvious. Usually by yawning.

It had taken four weeks to bring Mason's assortment of cases to the bench and in that time he had carefully been practising his newly-acquired skills of manipulative ability. He had discovered a natural talent for it. Even without the latent powers that contact with his father had awoken within him, Mason had always been strangely charming, convincing and affable – when he wanted to be. And right now, he _really_ wanted to be.

And of course, the case in point was that he needed to be charming, convincing and affable - or else be prepared to spend quite some time in a proper prison cell in a proper prison, instead of in the psych wing of the detention centre where he'd been held until now.

Mason did so. The court clerk stepped forward and asked him to put his hand on the Bible that he held. Mason did so.

"Is your name Mason McKinley?"

"Certainly is."

"Yes or no please, Mister McKinley." The judge knew Mason's type. Petty criminals finally brought to heel. He narrowed his eyes and looked over at the young man with untidy brown hair. Mason met his gaze in return and treated him to a beaming smile.

The judge found himself wondering why he never got to deal with any truly juicy cases. Murders, manslaughters, that sort of thing. He determined to get this one sorted as swiftly as possible.

"Yes."

"Do you swear on the Holy Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? So help you God?"

"Which particular God would that be, then?"

This caused a buzz. Murmur, murmur.

"Mister McKinley, one more clever comment and I'll find you in contempt."

"I'm sorry, Mister Your Honour Sir, but there's lots of Gods, loads of beliefs and I think it's a very fair question. Don't you?"

_Actually_, the judge found himself thinking, _the kid's right._

"Do you have a preference, Mister McKinley?"

"As it happens, yes, I do. I hereby swear by Loki the Trickster, the Sky Traveller, to say whatever it will take to convince everyone here present of my absolute innocence."

Over at the defence table, Melvin Rowbottom groaned softly and buried his head in his hands. The kid was going to prison. At the very least he was looking at permanent incarceration in a psychiatric institute.

"Thank you, Mister McKinley. Please, take a seat." The council for the prosecution stepped forward and nodded to Mason, who flopped down into the seat provided. The beaming smile remained on his face.

"You have heard the various charges brought against you. You initially filed a plea of 'not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility', but have retracted that claim and filed one of 'not guilty'. Would you like to tell the court exactly why it is that we should not convict you in the face of the overwhelming evidence?"

"Why yes, actually, Mister Council for the Prosecution," Mason said, getting to his feet again. "I would like to do that. I would like to do that very much indeed."

Mason then proceeded to tell the court _exactly_ why it was that they should not convict him in the face of the overwhelming evidence. He stepped down from the dock and moved around in front of the judge, speaking from the heart and periodically stopping to wipe an imagined tear from his eye.

He spoke of his childhood, of the neglect and disinterest his mother had displayed. He spoke of having been bullied at school for not knowing who his father was, and he spoke of the hardships he'd encountered at the hands of heartless social services staff who wouldn't give him benefit on the grounds he never had a fixed address.

He spoke of how he had been forced to turn to stealing cars merely to make enough money to keep living. He spoke of how he felt dreadful regret and sadness for everything he did – oh, the remorse. Oh, the misery. Oh, the sleepless nights.

Oh, the lies that weren't _quite _lies.

By the time he had finished speaking, every single person in that courtroom – including Mason McKinley – believed wholeheartedly that he didn't deserve to be found guilty of anything other than being a victim of terrible circumstance.

Mason shone. He performed the role of that said victim to absolute perfection. He didn't miss a beat.

A silence fell over the room.

"Thank you," said Mason, sniffling slightly as he dabbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry to have gone on so long. It's just that it has been a wonderful opportunity to tell my story…"

_Don't let the lie linger, Mason. Let it go, now._

"…thank you. Please, Mister Your Honour Sir, might I be excused for a moment to regain my composure?"

"I think we will call a recess, yes." The judge had never felt so moved to compassion by a speech and felt the need for a 'moment' himself. "Thank you, Mister McKinley. That was…most enlightening. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please retire and consider your verdict."

Three of the female jurors were crying openly, looking over at Mason with motherly affection as they filed out.

He gave them his best 'brave little soldier' smile and one of them barely managed to stifle a sob as she left the room.

Mason leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. Melvin Rowbottom slapped his legs and he took his feet down again.

"Well, Mister Solicitor," he said, "how did I do?"

"Mason, you are a remarkable young man." Rowbottom looked at his client with undisguised admiration. "I think you stand a pretty good chance. You'll have to wait until the jury have deliberated, of course. Come on, we'll go back to the waiting area." He clapped Mason around the shoulder in a friendly manner and they left the court room.

Despite the fact that Mason knew he had performed rather admirably, he still felt a strange sense of uncertainty when they were finally called back in for the jury's pronouncement. The jury passed the folded piece of paper that held Mason's future across to the judge who read it wordlessly.

Mason was told to stand.

He stood.

"Mason McKinley, the jury has deliberated on the charges brought against you and finds you not guilty on all counts…"

_YES!_

"…however…"

_NO!_

"…I personally feel that the effects of your actions cannot go entirely unpunished. You have, after all, destroyed a number of vehicles and there are a number of victims as a result of your previous behaviour. I have no choice, therefore, despite how sympathetic I am towards your plight, but to recommend an absolute minimum twelve month custodial sentence. In light of the time you spent in hospital and in the detention centre, this would be reduced to ten months. However…"

The judge leaned forward and considered Mason thoughtfully.

"I feel that in your case, this custodial sentence should be commuted to ten months worth of community service. I hope, sincerely, that in so doing, you might make an effort to change your lifestyle. Details will be worked out in conjunction with your solicitor. In the meantime, I am happy with the results of the police psychiatrist report and you are free to go."

The man banged his gavel and adjourned the court.

"Well done, Mason," said Rowbottom, looking hugely relieved.

Mason, however, was disappointed. He'd hoped to get off completely. But then, he rationalised over the next couple of hours as he sat, bored out of his mind whilst the prison clerk filled in endless reams of paperwork, he _was_ new at this game. It wasn't going to come overnight.

So all in all, he decided, he'd not done too badly. At least he wasn't going to be spending tonight in a prison cell.

"And where will you be spending tonight, Mister McKinley?"

The clerk was a young man, maybe not much older than Mason's twenty-five years, dark-skinned and handsome, with a proud bearing that seemed oddly incongruous with his lowly position. He didn't even raise his head when he asked the question. This irritated Mason for a moment, and then he smiled.

"I was hoping to find a half-decent hotel for a couple of nights," he said, an innocent tone in his voice. "You know, just until I get my shit together. Shame I haven't got any cash."

"There's twenty seven pounds and forty three pence in your personal effects," said the clerk, still without looking up. "Along with a cash point card, three cigarette lighters, - all empty, a packet of Wrigley's chewing gum, a bottle opener, a receipt from Tesco for sixty Benson and Hedges and…" This time, the clerk _did_ look up. "A humane mousetrap. I have to know, Mister McKinley. Why?"

"Why not?" Mason's smile was endearing and charming. "I thought it looked interesting. And humane, of course."

In a fit of drunkenness, he'd admired its shape and had wondered if it would make an impromptu bong. Mason had about as much interest in animal welfare as fast-food burger restaurants had in nutrition.

The clerk shook his head. "Your signature here, please," he said, pushing the paperwork over the table. "And here, here, here – and here." He pointed at several points on the paperwork where he had neatly marked crosses.

"It'd be great if you could loan me maybe twenty quid," said Mason, idly and conversationally as he signed the paperwork. "I could probably get somewhere half decent for forty seven pounds. Of course, fifty quid would be better. And here?"

"I'm not in the business of loaning money, Mister McKinley. If I was, don't you think I would be working in a bank?"

"Ah, go on," said Mason, cheerfully. "You know you want to."

This was the moment at which Mason discovered that his ability didn't work on another scion – at least not one who could lie and manipulate just as well as he could.

"I'm going to give you a word of advice, brother," said the court clerk, once again looking down at his paperwork. "Be careful what you do. I'm going to guess that you've just been awakened to your latent abilities. I suggest that you moderate usage of your skills until you have better control over them. What you did in that courtroom today was impressive, I'll grant you that. But it draws attention to you in a way I suspect that you aren't ready to handle. Not yet." He pushed the paperwork back again. "One more signature, please. Here. Then you're a free man." He stretched languorously, almost cat-like.

Mason stared at the clerk, his mouth open slightly.

"Who _are_ you?" he said, when finally he found his voice.

"I'm like you," came the reply and the clerk glanced up and smiled briefly. "Although not exactly. I'm going to guess Loki, right?"

"How do you…"

"Keep your head down, my friend. There are plenty of people like us out there – and there will be plenty of those people who will be very quick to slit your throat given half a chance. I don't know if your – father – told you, but you're worth money to them now. There's quite a bounty on Loki's children."

Mason suddenly felt afraid. The clerk smiled at him.

"I will say nothing, don't worry. I'm happy in my life. I get on with what I do."

"Who – I mean, you know what I mean." Mason signed the form for the last time. He was now, according to the assorted statutes of law, a free man.

Only now he felt himself caught up in something that he couldn't control.

"That's my business, not yours. Here are your effects…" The clerk pushed over the polythene bag that contained Mason's paltry belongings. He'd added an extra fifty pounds to the mix. "Thank you for your patience, Mason. Have a good day."

Stunned for once into silence, Mason stuffed his belongings in his pockets, mumbled a polite 'thank-you' to the clerk for the money and headed for the door.

"Mason?"

He stopped, hand on the door and turned.

"Yes?"

"Try to stay out of trouble. At least for a while, eh? I don't want to have to file your coroner's report if you know what I'm saying."

"I will." Mason felt small and meek and very, very confused.

"You've got a second chance here. Don't mess it up. Goodbye now."

And just like that, Mason was dismissed.

He was a free man.

© S Cawkwell, 2008


	5. Gifted

**Trickster – Chapter Five 'Gifted'**

**South London, England - One Year Ago**

For almost twelve months, Mason McKinley had lived a comparatively quiet life. Quiet, that was, when compared to the lifestyle he'd led prior to his experiences in the detention centre. He had actually taken the community service element of his punishment seriously and had worked hard to prove that he _could _become a valued member of society. He had been earnest and expressive whenever he'd met with his case worker and he had even taken a part-time courier job, which he actually rather enjoyed.

Belting around London on a motorbike suited Mason extraordinarily well and also gave him a taste for such high-powered machines.

Mason restricted his criminal activities as much as he could manage. He knew that he had come close to losing his freedom a year past – had it _really_ been that long? – and had no desire to see out his days from the inside of a padded cell.

He'd shaped up in a way he'd never believed possible. He was _working_ for a living for one thing and this had given him a steady income. Even if it wasn't exactly the most well-paid job in London, Mason had been able to afford monthly rent on a half-decent flat in Sydenham. He had to share it with a strange and mysterious kind of man called Jeff, who he frequently caught debasing cocaine in the kitchen.

It didn't particularly bother Mason all that much, as a continuing dope-smoker it wasn't his place to comment, after all - but it was just irritating when he fancied using the oven to heat up yesterday's pizza to discover the dead-eyed Jeff standing at the stove, his eyes intent on the spoon in his hand.

The flat wasn't any great shakes and for the most part, it was falling to bits. But to Mason, it represented freedom from the squats that he'd spent most of his life living in. When Jeff wasn't in the kitchen, he kept himself locked up in his own room, leaving Mason pretty much the rest of the flat to do with as he pleased.

What he largely did was study Norse mythology.

Loki had never been back to see him, not even after he had gotten out of a prison sentence, which Mason had been faintly disappointed by. His 'father' had promised him a gift, but it had never transpired. He knew that he had all this untapped potential, but had no idea how to harness it. The parting words of the court clerk had troubled him and he'd made the decision to keep himself as much out of trouble as he could manage.

So far, he rationalised, so good.

He employed his ability to manipulate whenever possible and over the twelve months that he'd been carefully developing the talent, he found himself using it unconsciously in conversation. It didn't work, he discovered several times, on girls he tried chatting up in nightclubs.

Which was annoying.

He'd never encountered, at least to his knowledge, another scion since he'd met the court clerk. He had remained true to the man's warning that he should keep his head down and used his abilities with caution.

In truth, he was starting to feel a little restless. Something was coming, he could sense, but he didn't know what.

As time went by and there was still no indication that anything had truly happened to him other than an hallucination brought on by too much dope and perhaps concussion brought on by the car accident, Mason began to revert to type. The odd car here, the odd motorbike there – he still got the same kick out of thieving as he had always done.

His job as a motorcycle courier had given him a real liking for motorbikes and they started, slowly, to form the focal point of his business. He liberated several over the course of the year, but nobody ever found out. They were always passed on and re-sold in a matter of hours. Mason's contacts were glad he was back.

Motorbikes were easier to steal than cars in many ways; faster for one and as long as you carried a pair of industrial bolt clippers to free them from their shackles, they became yours instantly.

And after all, old habits died hard.

A year to the day after he had first visited Loki's mead hall, Mason received another visitation from his celestial sire.

When he had first met Loki, the god had been in the guise of a police psychiatrist, small and neat with a well-trimmed goatee. This time, however, Loki had adopted another disguise altogether. So different did the man look that when Mason opened the door of the flat to him, he had no idea who it was. The middle-aged man in blue jeans and t-shirt at the door looked like he wouldn't be out of place at the pub down the street where Mason drank regularly.

"Mason! You're looking well!"

"What? Am I? Who are you?"

"I'm hurt that you don't recognise me, son. Can I come in? Of course I can."

A muscle twitched briefly under Mason's eye.

"Oh. It's you."

Mason held the door open and the man breezed past him, straight through to the remarkably sparse living room which contained one beaten-up old sofa, a small portable TV set (for which neither Mason nor Jeff paid a licence) and a veritable mountain of beer cans and pizza boxes.

Loki swept the cans off the sofa and they tumbled with a clatter to the floor.

"Bring me a beer would you?"

Mason brought him a beer and then sat down, cross-legged on the floor, fixing him with what he hoped was a cool stare.

"Have you got something in your eye, boy? Why are you looking at me like that?"

_There's a Norse god lounging on my sofa, drinking my beer. Either this stuff really _did_ happen to me, or that shit that Billy sold me last night was damn good._

Loki grinned his wicked, winning grin and Mason shifted uncomfortably.

"It's been a year," he said, pointedly. "I've been waiting for you to come and see me, but you never did."

"A year? Already? My, how time flies. I'm sorry I didn't catch up with you after your court case," said the Sky Traveller, swinging his legs up on the sofa and lounging as though he owned the place. "Places to go, people to see, you know how it is. But I'm here now. So tell me what you've been doing. I'm pleased to see that you have a half-decent place to live now. Could do with a little tidying, though, couldn't it?"

"What happened to Doctor Loman?"

"He was almost outrageously dull." Loki shrugged and crushed the now-empty beer can before throwing it onto the pile on the floor. "I get bored quickly."

"Who are you now?" Mason found himself, for some reason, going into the kitchen and returning with a bin liner, which he began loading up with the empty beer cans and pizza boxes.

"Oh, this is just a generic body," said Loki. "You may call me Lee Cohen."

"Very Jewish of you."

At this point, Jeff entered the room, wandering through from his bedroom to the bathroom which was beyond the kitchen. Both Mason and 'Lee' watched him as he bimbled through in his almost zombie-like way. They were still watching as he bimbled back.

Neither of them said a word.

"Who's the walking corpse?"

"That's Jeff. He's my flat mate. Although 'mate' is pushing it a bit. Man never speaks more than two syllables to me most the time. He's no bother, though, and when he gets the munchies, he cooks the most amazing omelettes."

"What does he do?"

Mason had no idea. Jeff left the flat every morning and arrived back every evening. He had just _presumed_ the man had a job.

"Dunno."

"You haven't got any better at researching people, then, I see. Although I approve mightily of your bookcase." Loki waved a lazy hand in the direction of Mason's ever-growing collection of books on Norse mythology. "Glad to see that you're taking some of this seriously at least."

"What am I supposed to _do_?" Mason blurted out, suddenly. He knew it sounded petulant, but he couldn't help it. "I mean, I have no idea what you want from me, or why you decided to visit me and take me to that pub…"

"Mead hall."

"…whatever."

"What are you supposed to do. Well, Mason, that's very much your own decision. And it strikes me that for the past year, you've been doing very little. But that's fine. It's perfectly normal for a scion to believe that everything has just been a dream. Some of you end up denying your birthrights forever. Others perform certain tasks for me. As you recall, I rarely get out alone."

Mason finished tidying up the mess in the living room and said nothing. He was aware of Loki's glittering, blue-eyed cool stare on him. He sat back down again, cross-legged on the floor whilst Loki lounged comfortably on the battered old sofa.

"I have a job for you, Mason, if you think you're ready for it."

" You do?" Almost instantly, Mason perked up. This was it! This was what he had been waiting for! Some glorious quest that he could undertake in the name of his father! He leaned forward attentively.

"I said, last time we met, that if you were good, I'd bring you a gift, did I not?" Loki considered the young man thoughtfully. It was uncanny, but of all his scions in recent years, he felt a peculiar fondness for Mason. Had he come into existence in this wonderful, terrible modern world, he would have _been_ Mason.

Mason nodded.

"Well, I'm glad to note that you've managed to keep your nose clean for the last twelve months. Here." The god reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a piece of leather thonging, on which hung two stones. Mason put a hand out and accepted the necklace.

It was simply a strip of thin leather, much as many young men these days wore around their necks or wrists. The two stones were small, oval in shape, maybe half an inch across at the most and each one bore a carved rune. Mason ran his finger over the stones. Most likely marble.

"Chaos," said Loki. "And fire. These runes represent your means to access both of those particular spheres of power. They don't come with instructions, you will have to work out what to do for yourself. I can't be with you all the time to mollycoddle. Do _not_ lose that necklace, Mason. Lose that necklace, you lose your means to fall back on the elements that serve me."

"Chaos and Fire? Sounds like a really, really bad mullet-rock band."

"Mason?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and listen."

"Right you are."

Mason shut up.

"Here, let me get that for you." Loki leaned forward and took the necklace from Mason's hand, tying it in a secure knot around the young man's neck. "There. Most becoming if I do say so myself."

The length of leather was short enough that it wouldn't be easy to grab hold of it and whip it off, but not so short that it throttled him. "You have to physically hold the rune to which you want to bind," explained the god, sitting back and examining Mason carefully. "If I could tell you exactly how it worked, Mason, I would. All I can tell you is that each scion embraces their power in a slightly different way. You will understand once you tap the stones."

"'s'cool," Mason shrugged easily. It wasn't exactly a wolf's tooth, or whatever else passed for funky and cool amongst his decidedly seedy friends, but it was fine. It was a gift. And apparently it'd give him even more abilities.

He felt strangely touched. No parental figure had ever given him a gift.

"There's more." Loki's face took on a serious expression, the first one that Mason had seen him wear since that first meeting. "I have a further gift for you. It's highly prized and extraordinarily valuable." From seemingly out of nowhere, the god produced a leather helm, the old-fashioned type that Mason had seen worn in movies. He looked at it curiously.

"This," said Loki, in a hushed voice, "is the Tarnhelm. I'm giving it to you with a caveat."

"A what-y-at?"

"A stipulation. A warning, if you will. This helm will grant the user the ability to blend into shadows, to effectively become invisible. However, I do not intend for you to use it unless it is in the most dire of circumstances. Using the Tarnhelm creates a lot of _noise_, you see. You know if you are close to a computer and your cellphone rings? The interference it causes? That's sort of what the Tarnhelm does to scions all over. They'll hear you using it – and they'll be able to track you. I don't want them to find _you…_and I don't want them to find the Tarnhelm."

A wicked, infectious grin.

"It's not exactly mine to give, you see."

"You're using me as a _fence _for stolen goods?"

"A protector, Mason, please. Credit me with _some_ style. And it's not stolen. It's more…well, _borrowed_."

"Stolen."

"Borrowed."

Mason tried glaring. It didn't work. Loki just grinned at him.

He relented.

"OK," he said. "I'll look after it for you. How long?"

"Until I want it back. And Mason, I mean it. Don't use it unless you absolutely have to. You'll find other ways of staying out of trouble."

"But you still haven't told me exactly what it is that you want me to _do,_" said Mason, trying hard to keep the whine out of his voice. "I've been so bored that I've taken a _job_, for heavens sake."

"Really?" Loki raised an eyebrow. "What sort of job?"

"Motorbike courier."

"Now that," said Loki, his face splitting in a huge grin, "works nicely for me. There may be the odd time that you deliver packages for me. Never question, just perform – and at the end of it all, there will be a reward."

"My ultimate reward in Valhalla, huh?"

"That, too. Now I have to get going, Mason. I'll see you again."

"When?"

"When I want to."

Loki got up from the sofa and began to head for the door. As he approached it, he paused, turned around and considered Mason, looking forlorn and lost on the floor. "I'll find work for you to do for me, don't worry about that. In the meantime, this might be of some help to you. Learn a new skill. Buy a gun. Heck, buy _two._ Take care, Mason."

He tossed a small envelope at the young man and before Mason could even get to his feet, had moved swiftly through the hall and Mason heard the front door close.

The envelope contained approximately five thousand pounds in cash. He knew. He counted it three times.

Today, it seemed, was Mason's lucky day.

© S Cawkwell, 2008


	6. Island of Calm

**Trickster – Chapter Six 'Island of Calm'**

**South London, England – Present Time**

Twelve months passed swiftly for Mason McKinley.

He had actually displayed remarkable sense in terms of the money Loki had left him and had put some into a savings account. At least that way, should push came to shove, he'd have some money to fall back on.

Mason may have had a tendency to being reckless, but he wasn't an idiot, despite appearances.

He had spent the rest on an assortment of items that he considered would demonstrate good investment in his future.

The two Glock revolvers hadn't come cheaply, neither had the full set of biker leathers that he had bought to replace the shabby, second hand ones that he had been wearing until now during the course of his job.

Mason had enough underground contacts that he was able to acquire tuition in using his newly acquired weaponry, and after a fairly shaky start during which he had a tendency to be over-excited at the fact that he was using guns, he discovered a natural eye for target shooting.

Time passed, in the infallible way that it always had and, which Mason suspected, would always continue to do.

He continued with his shooting practice, and attempted to tap the power of the runes that he now wore at his throat. He seemed unable to do this, despite what he tried and finally narrowed down his reasoning to one of two things. Either he was trying too hard, or Loki had made a huge overestimation in his potential.

And then, just two months shy of two years after Mason's discovery of his heritage, things started falling into place for him.

It began, simply enough, as these things often did, with a disagreement with a friend over something so trivial that by the time it had escalated out of control, neither Mason nor his friend could barely remember what had started it.

'It' turned out to be a pretty young lady called Lucy.

The situation culminated in an all-out fist fight in a nightclub in Brixton, and it turned out to be the first time that Mason finally tapped his runes successfully.

The friend in question went by the name of Pete Cardew. Mason had known him for years; had even lived in a squat with him for quite some time and was probably the closest thing to a best friend that Mason had. They had fallen out before, of course, as best friends are wont to do, usually over women, but never with such fierce and driving anger as it had done this time.

It had all been fine until they had bumped into one another at the nightclub.

Until Pete had arrived on the scene, Mason had been enjoying a surprisingly enjoyable evening. He didn't normally 'do' nightclubs, but the young woman with whom he had struck up a rather hopeful, burgeoning relationship had insisted on dragging him along. He had been sat in her flat getting rather pleasantly stoned and had been chilled and agreeable enough to accept her invitation.

Once there, the charm had dripped from him in easy bucket loads and so far, at least, he hadn't paid for a single drink all night. As was often the way when he was amongst his peers, Mason was soon surrounded by a gaggle of people all hanging on his every word. It wasn't that his stories were even particularly interesting: it was just that he had a way of telling said stories that engaged people's interest.

Not all of this was down to his abilities, of course: Mason was, at heart, a personable, charismatic and extraordinarily affable young man whose pragmatic views on life made him a welcome companion in any group. He'd always rather liked being the centre of attention; it was a state of being that his ego appreciated.

So on top of the two joints that he'd smoked before coming out, he now had several beers in his system and was lounging in a corner of the night club, a cigarette in one hand and his arm lightly thrown over the shoulders of Lucy, the girl who had brought him here.

He was, for want of a better phrase, chilled.

All that changed when Pete Cardew came storming across from the other side of the club, having spotted Mason amongst the little gang of hangers-on.

"McKinley, you've overstepped the mark. You and me. Outside. Now."

Pete was not chilled. Pete was very, very angry. Pete wasn't a dope smoker: he preferred things that were much harder and which gave him quite the fighting spirit: a fighting spirit he was about to demonstrate.

"Shove off, Pete," he said, easily, and amiably. "I'm just sitting here chilling with my friends. Go crawl back under your rock."

"No way, man, this is personal now." Pete pointed a finger at Lucy.

Now, Mason, as has been documented, was a pretty affable, easy-going sort of man and few things got his temper flaring as much as rudeness. And he considered Pete's pointing finger to be the epitome of rudeness.

With a reluctant sigh, he unfolded from his slouched seated position and got to his feet.

"Sorry, ladies and gents," he said. "I need to have a chat with this grumpy bollocks. Don't go anywhere, sweetheart," he added, leaning down and kissing Lucy gently on the cheek.

That was the point at which Pete exploded into uncontrollable rage, launching himself full-on at Mason. Mason, not expecting a sudden attack was taken off guard and went flying backwards over the seating, tumbling into a mass of arms, legs, punches and swearing with his best friend on the floor.

At first, Mason had resisted fighting back. He'd worked _hard _over the last two years to keep his nose clean. What he didn't need right now was a new conviction for affray. He was pretty sure that he could get himself out of trouble, but truth was, he didn't want to _have_ to get himself out of trouble.

But after several badly aimed punches finally resulted in a successful hit which caught him painfully on the cheekbone, Mason turned the fight round and hit back.

Over the last few months, the training he had been doing on using his firearms, particularly the running-and-shooting training had given him much better dexterity than he'd enjoyed before. He dodged, he weaved and he eventually got bored of getting out of Pete's way before he had aimed a perfect right uppercut that saw his friend fly backwards and land with a crash on one of the tables, upsetting a load of drinks – and some rather large men with scraggly beards whose drinks the table had apparently previously held – and it all went downhill incredibly quickly from that point onwards.

As was often the way, people became entangled in the brawl who had no idea why they were fighting. They simply joined in because it looked like the fun thing to do. Eventually, of course, the two instigators of the fight were no longer a part of the mass of seething, fighting bodies that had broken out into all-out chaotic fisticuffs. Pete was out cold from Mason's well-aimed uppercut and Mason himself was caught right in the middle of it.

The epicentre of a mass brawl was, he discovered, perhaps the safest place to be.

Everywhere was noise, all was by now completely out of control. It was complete and utter chaos. The cause of the fight – which was to say, he and Pete's disagreement over Lucy, was long forgotten and all those present were now simply fighting with each other for the sake of fighting.

_Chaos…_

The word filtered into his consciousness and he rallied. _Chaos._

His hand reached up and gripped one of the two runes that he wore around his neck. Almost instantly he became acutely, almost painfully aware of the quickened pace of his heart as it pumped both blood and adrenaline around his body. And then everything became serene. He was no longer a part of the chaos. He was removed from it, a beacon of shining calmness.

And they all left him alone.

Every single one of them.

Mason had glanced at his watch. It was only half eleven, and whilst this nightclub wasn't particularly known for being quiet, the cops would no doubt arrive very shortly. Which meant that Mason needed to get himself Elsewhere.

On a whim, he had collected Lucy from where she had been cowering behind a sofa and had guided her to safety away from the seething brawl of people. He had kissed the tip of her nose, had laughed softly at her surprised-looking face and had sauntered off gleefully into the night, seeking a taxi with the plan to head for an all-night bar on Vauxhall Bridge that he'd frequented a couple of years ago.

He decided there and then that relationships were complicated things and much as he'd enjoyed the diversion that Lucy had offered him, he wouldn't be seeing her again.

As he walked down the street, he enjoyed the brisk, night air on his face which sobered him up a little. He paused in his walk and lit a cigarette. He felt relaxed and calm, possibly a vestige of whatever magic had just potentially saved him from a _lot_ of trouble.

It was easy enough to find a taxi, there were plenty of them about at this time of night and within thirty minutes he was being dropped outside the Blacksmith's Arms on Vauxhall Bridge.

Mason hadn't been here for over two years and as he stepped out of the taxi he looked up the familiar sign with great fondness.

The feeling slipped away as he looked up, however. There was something _different_, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The sign was the same as ever it had been: an open-fronted blacksmith's shop, a large hammer leaning up against an anvil. In the distance was a huge tree.

It was the same sign that he remembered, but for some reason, it left him feeling uncomfortable; almost as though the sign was some sort of warning.

However, Mason could hear Jack Daniels calling him from inside the bar, so he shrugged and entered.

He sat at the bar for maybe three hours and was well on the way to total and utter inebriation when he finally decided to call it a night. He grinned at the barmaid with whom he'd spent a productive couple of hours flirting and said a warm 'goodnight' to her. She had slipped him her phone number in return.

Mason visited the bathroom before leaving, and found a twenty pound note lying on the floor. He pocketed it gleefully.

Tonight was proving to be a fantastic night. He would probably have a major hangover in the morning, but it didn't matter. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going to put a crimp in his evening.

He left the Blacksmith's Arms with a spring in his step.

He got maybe a hundred yards before he was grabbed and dragged into a side street next to the pub. Before he could say a word, a fist was slammed into his gut, winding him and sending him sprawling to his knees.

Mason scrambled as swiftly as he could to his feet.

Perhaps tonight was not going so well after all.

"Who are you?" he said to his assailant. "And what do you want?"

And this is where the game actually began!

© S Cawkwell, 2008


End file.
